


Choices

by ConditionOfEternity



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Hurt America (Hetalia), Hurt No Comfort, Mild Hurt/Comfort, War of 1812, but also kind of, the line between justice and vengeance is thin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConditionOfEternity/pseuds/ConditionOfEternity
Summary: The fire that indulgingly bit at America's capital was no match for the fire in his eyes.England and America confront the choices they made as Washington, DC burns in the distance.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Choices

The leather boots rhythmically beat like a drum on the ashen dirt street of the formerly proud capital city. They moved confidently, not with haste, but a patient arrogance. The noise struck sharply against the dull background roar of fire, broken buildings, and yells of fear. 

The man approached what was a storefront, at least before the fire began to lick at its edges. A dark, human figure was knelt by it, leaning breathlessly against the walls. The store’s overhang, towards which the flames eagerly reached, proved to be no shield to the ash that wept from the sky like snowflakes.

The leather boots paused about three meters from the huddled form. The owner of the boots, a sandy-blond man with eyes green like a viper, lightly snorted with mirth at the huddled figure before him. He lifted his head slightly, waiting to be acknowledged. 

The young man on the ground refused to speak, but his look spoke clearly. Loathing. Perseverance. Commitment. Fear. 

Betrayal.

The recipient of his glare saw this, but showed no anger or sign of insult. He said nothing. He let his eyes meet those before him and met the challenge, blinking slowly before manipulating his lips into a toothless, empty smile as cold as the air was hot.

He primly clasped his worn hands behind his red coat and held them calmly, examining the sight before him. The men maintained dauntless eye contact. The silence was as heavy as the humid air around them. 

An annoyed exhale. 

The man in the red coat took a step forward.

“America,” he posited, not an acknowledgement but an admonishment.

The young man before him, America, tried to scowl even more as he kneeled on the dusty ground. He tried to reach for his gun, haphazardly cast to the side. The attempt was undermined by a taut groan- America clenched his eyes, buckling slightly into himself to try and reached to grasp at the flaring, angry burn that advanced across his chest. His navy uniform coat lay loosely over his shoulder, stained in blood, ash, and earth.

The man before him was patient. He took in the burn, curling in his lips and nodding to himself. He waited until the bout ended and America met his eyes again. The ash collided with sweat, dirt, and blood to form an impressionist painting on the young man’s face. His mouth began to shape into angry words, but America was interrupted. 

“America,” the man repeated firmly. He let his hands fall back to his sides, impatiently tapping lightly against his thigh. “Don’t ask why. You know why.”

The fires decimating the capital were but a candle compared to the fire that then lit in America’s eyes, who took a heavy breath.

“Fuck off, England,” America spat out, the short sentence a feat for his limited strength. He tried to push himself up more with his right arm, but was punished for the movement when the burn pulled into more untouched skin. He collapsed again over his knees, unable to lean back up against the storefront. Cries of pain teetered in his throat, held back only by pure will.

“America,” the man, England, huffed. He strut forward, loosening his face into a self-satisfied leer. They stood only two meters apart in distance.. “America. You know this had to happen. You cannot possibly think it would have gone any other way.” 

America looked back up at England, his bold glare reigned in at the edges by pain. England did not move closer, frigidly examining the pained man as the city razed around them.

“America,” England said again, the word feeling more like a hammer than a name. His listless smile warped up ever more slightly. “You did it to York. For one who speaks so loudly of equality and rule of law, you seem to be quite reluctant to face justice.”

In the distance, one of the stalwart buildings finally surrendered to the callous fire, crumbing into itself. A prickled groan finally escaped America’s chapped, fraying lips and he turned his gaze back to his worn, leather boots. His arms tightened more around his chest, the thin white shirt wielding to the smouldering edges of the swelling wound. 

England’s reticent smile curled more.

“Stop that. Hypocrisy is a poor look on anyone,” England stepped closer, his voice threateningly rising with contained rage on its edge. “You destroy your brother’s upper capital, yet act so pitiful now? Where were these tears, where was this self-gratifying shame as your brother wailed from your men’s flames?” He was barely a step aware and looked down with a look nearing disgust. “Look at me, show even a fraction of the “pride” you claim to represent.” He shot the words towards the younger man as if they were fire on his own lips.

America stared downwards. 

England snorted. “How can you act like the world should accept your nation when you can hardly buck the responsibilities with dignity!” He leaned over with this, face directly in front of America’s avoiding gaze.

Another building collapsed in the distance. 

England loomed over, impatiently awaiting the answer he knew he wouldn’t accept. 

America mumbled a breathless response towards the ground.

England scoffed and shook his head exasperatedly, standing back up and taking a step back. “Embarrassing,” he mocked, his lips curling into a smirk.

America’s head lifted with a racing speed, crystalline blue eyes meeting green with a piercing, unrelenting glare. “It was an accident,” he repeated sharply, words punctuated with smoky gasps.

“An ‘accident’?” The words teemed with disbelief.

“It wasn’t planned,” America stated, trying to convince himself just as much. “They didn’t mean to. My men, they were so angry. They were hurt.”

The rigid, stern edges on England’s face softened for an imperceptible moment. 

“It will always hurt,” he muttered grimly, voice barely a whisper. He resumed his straight posture and gazed at the wall behind America’s head as flames gently crinkled on the roof of the overhang. “It’s the choice you made.”

America continued to stare back with committed resistance, mouth tightening in acknowledgement. He clutched his arms around his chest as if it would fall out otherwise.

England took another breath, the adrenaline behind his composure beginning to fade. He uneasily looked again at America’s burning chest and reached for his canteen. His resolve faded, and he offered it forward- 

With no warning, the pole holding up the overhang collapsed under the fire. England scuttered back, escaping by a thread. The iron and boards detached, racing each other in a blazing plunge to the ground. Upon collision, the flames on the board plumed in jubilation.

The cedar and metal rubble submitting to the jovial dance of fire under the overpowering sky was an almost bewitching sight, if not for the blue coat that just barely was visible underneath.

England felt his heart speed to meet the pace of his marching battle drum. “Bastard!” He called to no one as he raced back to the razing pile. He gave his bare hands no consideration as he pulled one burning board after another and tossed them in the street behind him. 

It felt longer than it took, but he was finally able to drag the limp, battered young man from the wreckage. England turned America to face upwards on the ground. As he looked at the unconscious face, the chaos and panic from the town around them faded into a whisper.

America’s face, while tinged with pain even in unconsciousness, displayed a serenity and gentleness that England hadn’t seen in decades. He lifted his hand, now carrying small burns, and allowed his fingertips to just barely caress the soft, dusty skin of America’s cheek. 

But as soon as the moment started, it was over as the severity of the moment sunk in.

“Get up, you fool!” England murmured, scanning over the young man’s injured body. An obtrusive, fresh cut splintered with wood glistened across America’s hairline. Lower down, the previously-white shirt did little to shield the burn on America’s chest, which was enraged by the unexpected tumble. England paused to examine it, eyes widening in shock. The grotesque, jagged edges of the bubbling wound were marred with blisters and colored with a mix of blood, dirt, and ash. The burn permeated through a layer of skin and enveloped the area over America’s heart. The taunting heat radiated onto England’s somber face. 

America stirred with a muted groan. England snapped back to careful attention. He instinctually pulled the bandage roll from his haversack, poured some water over America’s head to wash out the loose wood splinters, and gently folded the wrap around the fiercely bleeding laceration with firm, tender pressure. The moisture and warm touch elicited another groan as England tied the end of the dressing. 

“Oh, get up.” England’s otherwise harsh words were tempered by a shaking concern. He shook off his light overcoat, folded it, and gently laid America’s head on it. He intently watched America with fearful furrowed brows, loose hand sliding carefully to rest on America’s arm. “You’re fine, come on now…” 

America grumbled again and blinked a few times, opening his eyes with the weight of an anvil. His half-conscious self groggily took stock of the crumbled, framing storefront, the street he laid on, and the man kneeling softly beside him with hands covered in blood. America’s eyes widened, and he weakly tried to jerk his arm out from England’s hold. He confusedly looked around, searching for an escape like a feral dog.

England’s expression fell, his hand curling into itself. He watched America’s arm move protectively over his chest. England closed his eyes again, taking a quavering breath before slipping back into a neutral mask.

“Here,” England offered, unscrewing his canteen. “You were breathing ash, have this.” He lifted it in front of America, who watched suspiciously before cautiously having a few sips. England took it away as America started hoarsely coughing. 

“Alright,” England assured, trying to forget the harsh conversation from just five minutes before. “We have to check your head. Do you know what day it is?”

America closed his eyes and muttered incomprehensibly. 

“Come again?” 

“Yes.” America articulated sharply, face glued shut. “Yes. The 24th. August.” The dry, rasping voice did not match his young face.

“Okay,” England affirmed, offering a slight smile. He settled his hand cautiously on America’s shoulder, being careful to avoid any inflamed area. “Very good. And where are you?”

America snapped towards England, rage spreading into the pained face. “Oh, I think you already know where.” There was no mirth in his drawl.

“America,” England exhaled crossly, trying to keep his tone flat. “Don’t be juvenile. The sooner we check, the sooner we can dress your injury.”

America released a crisp laugh, the joyless cackle cutting tangibly through the air. He sat up, flaring pain only fueling the piercing anger of his reply. “You’re going to dress it? You do know what it’s from, right?” His face twisted to a joyless smirk, challenging England to answer.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Stop this and sit up, there are still bandages-”

“Don’t act like this normal. Your men are dancing and celebrating on my ashes. I know you feel it.”

England kept his steel gaze, saying nothing. 

“You’re not denying it.”

England remained silent and expressionless.

America smiled bitterly. “You said it yourself. I made my choice. And by the light of these flames, you’ve made your choice.” 

England turned around wordlessly, throwing the bandages and canteen to the ground. He shook with a conflicted anger. After a moment of debate, he looked over his shoulder. “And I don’t regret my choice.” His eyes were fixed on America’s scorched chest as he spoke. “I don’t at all.” America’s bravado fell slightly as he met his former brother’s distant, thousand-yard look. It reflected an austere sadness molded through centuries.

“You remember York,” England said. “You say it wasn’t planned, but you didn't stop them.”

It wasn't an accusation, but an acknowledgement. They let the moment sit.

“This area used to have the most beautiful sunrise,” England refused to meet America’s confused eyes. He turned away again and paused for a moment. He stared at the sky, where a gray stormcloud reflected the red hue below.

The words hung between them. 

“I don’t regret my choice, but I don’t relish in it.” England broke the silence slowly, still pondering the sky. 

America’s face fell into resignation, burn quelling against a few drops of rain that began to fall.

“However,” England’s voice was quietly mournful as he again faced America. He loosened his hands and placed them behind his back. “I do hope we have different choices in the future.”

He turned around for the final time and walked away with purpose, leather boots padding softly against the now-moist ground.

England didn’t look back. Even if he had, the rain would have made it hard for the younger man on the ground to see the tears reluctantly starting to fall down England’s cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god this is my first fic in literally 8 years, I really hope you guys liked it?? I haven't done creative writing in almost as long, if you guys have any tips or recommendations for how I could improve/be more clear, please share!!
> 
> History notes:  
> I know there's a million 1812 takes out there, but throwing mine in the ring. I love history, so when I was doing some research on this generally-forgotten war, I was particularly struck to find that it was rare and highly frowned for nations to burn the capitals of their competitors even in war, and Europe was shocked to learn that the UK had done such. However, many people in England considered it justified due to America’s actions in York. The burning wasn't in the original American plan, but came about almost accidently (certainly against the orders that the commander gave, which were not to burn/pillage) after a series of escalated attacks between the Brits and Americans. The Americans caused much more destruction to residential areas than the Brits, who focused on public buildings (I used some discretion to have the storefront burning for the ~drama~).
> 
> The British had just won against Napoleon and wanted to retaliate for York, making the burning of DC have a bit of schadenfreude. It wasn't exactly clear what their strategy was after the buildings burned, as they probably didn't plan to retake DC or any of that. Either way, we'll never know, since a huge storm came in after about 24 hours and put out the fires. There was even a tornado, which drove out the British (tornadoes are EXTREMELY rare in DC). 
> 
> I wanted to balance the bitterness and dark joy of this attack against England not being, you know, terrible. We all get caught up in that darkness sometimes, lord knows. I have my bias of this history as well, given that I'm American. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! I want to improve and get back into writing, what with being in this isolated hell year, so any feedback is very appreciated.


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